


Exercise is for People with Morals

by AU Mer-Maid (neonstardust)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Arm Wrestling Preparation, Aromantic Shirabu Kenjirou, Don't Let The Tags Fool You This Is Safe For Work, Established Queerplatonic Relationship, Food mention, Kinktober 2019, Muscles, Post Canon - Aged Up Character(s), Post-Canon, Queerplatonic Relationships, Roommates, Sthenolagnia, Wholesome Safe For Work Content In My Kinktober? Heck Yeah, pushups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-23 22:41:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21088979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonstardust/pseuds/AU%20Mer-Maid
Summary: "You're going to lose," Yahaba jokes, taking Hanamaki's hand. He's never arm wrestled before. The position feels strange, but Watari offers an encouraging thumbs up."In your dreams." Hanamaki smiles good naturedly, and the match begins.And ends.Yahaba stares at their hands, at Hanamaki's hand pressed into the tabletop, to Hanamaki himself, who is rubbing his nose from a sneeze. As cheers erupt around him, cold dread fills Yahaba's stomach.This was not how the match was supposed to turn out.





	Exercise is for People with Morals

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober Day 18 - Prompt: Sthenolagnia

“Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four.”

“Are we done now?”

“No.” Breathing heavy, Yahaba does another pushup. Sweat drips down his face.

Shirabu pushes his foot down, and Yahaba’s arms tremble as he struggles to keep himself up. “Are we done _now_?”

“Not yet,” Yahaba hisses. Stubbornly, he does another pushup, and Shirabu takes some of the weight off him before he hurts himself. “I’m going to get, stronger. Today.”

Returning his gaze to his phone, Shirabu checks his text messages, making sure to leave Semi and Tendou on read. Goshiki sent him a Snap of a spike he did with some other third year. He closes out the app, but, thinking better of it, he reopens it and critics Goshiki’s form.

“Forty-four. Forty-five.”

“We done now?”

“No.”

Yahaba pants. Shirabu’s foot rests lightly on his back, but his arms continue to tremble. Against Yahaba’s wishes, Shirabu takes his foot off him and sits down.

“Hey.” He drops to his knees. He breathes shallow and fast, his body trembling. “We’re not done.”

“You are.” Shirabu glares at him over the top of his phone. “Get some water.”

Ignoring him, Yahaba sits down and flexes. The slightest of muscle curves his bicep. It’s an adequate amount, Shirabu thinks. The sheen of sweat coating his skin makes it more pronounced, but Yahaba frowns. “Not good enough.”

“Explain to me again why you care about bodybuilding all of sudden.”

Yahaba stands. Gripping his elbow, he works his shoulder in slow circles. A bruise colors his wrist from the first few pushups where he fell on his face before he got the hang of it. “It’s the only way I’ll beat Kyoutani.”

Shirabu raises an eyebrow. He can think of many ways to beat Kyoutani, the best option costing them only a stick of butter from the refrigerator and the worst involving two shovels and a body bag. Hard work and exercise, however, have no place on the list, with or without their current time constraints. He’ll need to buy more butter, though.

“Are you listening?” Yahaba asks.

“No.” He wonders what time it is. Picking up his phone, he stares at the clock. The screen goes dark. Pushing the button again, he forces himself to actually read it this time.

“It’s not about Kyoutani,” Yahaba repeats himself. “Hanamaki-san will be there. If I lose to Kyoutani, he’ll realize today was a fluke.”

“How did he not realize that”—Shirabu leans forward, pressing his hands together—“when you literally only beat him at arm wrestling because he sneezed.”

“Well…”

“Don’t say something stupid.”

“But the sun was in his eyes.”

Shirabu drops his face into his hands. “Does anyone from Seijoh have a brain?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Sharing one doesn’t count.” Rubbing his temples, he tries to remember how he got roped into this mess. Clothing rustles. He looks up just in time to watch Yahaba do a handstand. He wobbles once, twice, and then falls flat on his back.

“Ow.” He cradles his head.

Shirabu sighs, slow and heavy, like the last of his hope for Yahaba is leaving him all in one exhale. Getting down on the floor, he helps Yahaba sit up. “On the bright side,” he says, “hitting your head can’t cause brain damage if you have no brain.”

“Shut up.” He tries to move away, but Shirabu grips his hand, keeping him in place. “If you won’t help me, I’ll do this myself.”

“What happens if you win?” He pulls Yahaba closer. Giving in, Yahaba leans into his shoulder, his hair tickling Shirabu’s neck. “You’ll lose to Iwaizumi-san right after.”

“To lose to Iwaizumi-san would be an honor. Have you seen his arms?”

Shirabu shrugs. “They’re okay.”

“Okay? He can bench press a car.” Yahaba sighs wistfully. “Haven’t you ever wanted to be strong like that?”

Shirabu considers it. More strength means he would be able to spike harder, but as a setter, that isn’t as much of a priority as the height of his jump. Leg muscles are more important than biceps, no matter what he can bench press.

“It’d be cool,” Yahaba mumbles.

“What the hell do you need to lift a car for?” Shirabu asks. The conversation is going nowhere. Judging by Yahaba’s lack of response, he’s realized it, too, but he stays still, quiet. Running his fingers through Yahaba’s hair, Shirabu waits for whatever ridiculous thing he’s going to say next.

“Ushijima is really strong.”

“Yes.”

“And Reon-san,” Yahaba adds. Sitting up, he gestures in the general direction of the bookshelf. “I saw Semi open a pickle jar once.”

“Is there a point to this?”

“You have strong senpai,” Yahaba says.

Shirabu nods. “So do you. It’s because they’re older. And opening a pickle jar isn’t hard.”

“But he works out,” Yahaba presses on.

Shirabu doesn’t like where this is heading, in more ways than one. “How do you know that?”

“We follow each other on Instagram.” Yahaba shrugs, and Shirabu closes his eyes trying to process this disturbing information. He can’t decide which is worse: them interacting through social media or the fact that Semi posts pictures about working out. Both thoughts give him a headache.

Yahaba chews his lip, as if torn between continuing and changing the topic entirely. “Do you think that I...” He trails off.

“We don’t need to work out,” Shirabu answers the unfinished question. “I just need to be strong enough for volleyball.”

“And me?” Yahaba asks.

Shirabu thinks about it. “You need to be strong enough to carry the pumpkin when we go to the store next week.”

Yahaba’s face twists into a grimace, and he looks down at the mess he’s made of his arms. “What if I can’t?”

“Then I’ll carry it.” Shirabu shrugs, but Yahaba looks unconvinced. Rolling his eyes, Shirabu stands. “You know I’m aromantic, right? Do you understand what that means?”

“Yeah,” Yahaba says in a voice that means “sorta.”

“It means I don’t care what you look like.” Shirabu circles his wrists, stretching out his arms. Turning his head this way and that, he cracks his neck.

Yahaba’s eyes narrow in suspicion. Before he can run away, Shirabu bends down and scoops him up into his arms. He’s heavier than he looks. Shirabu wobbles, but, planting his feet, he lifts Yahaba higher until he can wrap his arms around Shirabu’s neck. “What are you doing?” he hisses. He looks at the ground, but Shirabu bumps their heads together, forcing him to look into his eyes.

“If you’re going to work out, do it for yourself,” he says. “Not for me, and if you ever consider working out to compete against Semi-san again, I will drop you.” The threat is only half serious, but Yahaba tightens his grip on him anyway. “If you can be okay with not going on dates or whatever with me, then I can deal with your noodle arms.”

“I do not have noodle arms.”

“You’re right. That’s offensive to noodles.”

Yahaba’s eyes narrow, but with his arms around Shirabu’s neck, his legs dangling uselessly over Shirabu’s arm, he has no way of hitting him. Instead, he settles for sticking his tongue out at him.

Shirabu drops him on the couch. “I need to be strong for volleyball”—he flops down besides Yahaba—“and to carry you. What do you need to be strong for?”

Yahaba leans into him. “To beat Kyoutani.”

“I’ll handle that.” Pulling out his phone, Shirabu orders more butter online from the nearest grocery store. If one slippery table is all it will take to end this madness, he will gladly shell out the yen for it.

Shaking his head, Yahaba says, “You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m immune to morals and muscles.” He waves his phone tauntingly. “You need me.”

“I love you,” Yahaba corrects.

“I love you, too, loser.”


End file.
